


temperature gets higher, comes down to the wire (it's too late, mercury in retrograde)

by MotherKarizma



Series: here comes the sun [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers Family, Disordered Eating, Domestic Avengers, Everyone Loves Peter Parker, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Orphan Peter Parker, Past Drug Addiction, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Has Anxiety, Peter Parker Has Issues, Peter Parker Has Nightmares, Peter Parker Has Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Avengers, Protective Tony Stark, References to Depression, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, completed series, reading the previous works is necessary for context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22841362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherKarizma/pseuds/MotherKarizma
Summary: “Shhh. It was just a bad dream, bud. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”Peter cried against Tony’s shoulder. He cried the last little bit of life left in his soul out onto a wrinkled pajama shirt. He cried and cried and cried.“I’m not fine. I’m not fine. Nothing is fine.”Spider-Man was the last thing that had been truly and wholly his. Now it was everyone’s and nobody’s. Free for the taking, for the studying, for the picking apart. Fair game.“I know you’re not.” Tony, too, sounded close to tears, gripping Peter as if afraid he might disappear at any moment. It wasn’t exactly an irrational fear. “I know.”Did he?-----In the aftermath of his unintentional identity reveal, Peter is beyond shaken.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Avengers Team, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: here comes the sun [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633516
Comments: 43
Kudos: 1007
Collections: Spider-Man Public Identity Reveal, The Best Irondad/Spiderson Fics, The Best Peter Parker Whump Fics, ellie marvel fics - read





	temperature gets higher, comes down to the wire (it's too late, mercury in retrograde)

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE TO NEW READERS: this is the seventh work in a 12-part series! i highly recommend reading the previous works first, then returning to this one, as this work makes little to no sense as a stand-alone.
> 
> this is the longest one in the series so far! i figured you guys deserve it after i tore your hearts out, stomped on them, and left you dangling off the edge of a cliff. (: enjoy!
> 
> [young guns - mercury in retrograde](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBWLqnaqU3c)  
> \\\temperature gets higher  
> comes down to the wire  
> it's too late, mercury in retrograde  
> quicksilver, running like a river  
> it's so cold, we shiver  
> sealed our fate, mercury in retrograde//

"-you with me? Come on, kid. You need to breathe."

Peter hadn’t realized he wasn’t. Now, he inhaled deeply, lungs aching, and a soft noise of distress escaped without his permission.

“There we go, buddy. There we go. Keep doing that, alright?” A calloused hand took his and pressed it against his own abdomen, which he felt trembling and moving jaggedly with each sharp, uneven breath. “Feel that? You can breathe. I’m here. Just breathe.”

“I can’t,” he whined anyway, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter, pressing his forehead hard against the shoulder it rested on. “I _can’t_.”

“You can. I promise, you can. You’re doing so good. Deep breath – in, out – see? You’re doing it.” An arm wrapped around him, fingers tracing nonsense shapes across the back of his shirt. “Everything’s okay, Pete. I’m here. You’re safe. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

He was safe. Mister Stark was there. He was safe.

The world came back into focus slowly, one enhanced sense at a time. Sound; the sound Tony’s voice, calmer than it had any right to be. Smell; the smell of the lab, of laundry detergent from the shirt his face was pressed against. The mixed scent of oil and pricey cologne screamed with familiarity.

Sight; he opened his eyes and moved his head to the side, glancing at the tablet still glowing on the table. Tony immediately turned them both around, blocking his view. “Don’t. It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Peter said, somewhat choked, once he caught enough of his breath back to do so. “Nothing – nothing about this is _fine_.”

“It will be. I’m taking care of it.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Tony – he did, unequivocally, with his very life – but he had a hard time understanding what exactly the man was ‘taking care of.’ His identity was out there, clear as day, open information for the entire world to take. There was nothing left to do but sit back and watch the chaos unfold.

“I’m gonna go upstairs.” He pulled away, staring pointedly at the wall even as Tony made an obvious attempt to catch his gaze. Peter couldn’t look at him. He wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears burning behind his eyes if he did. “I want to be alone.”

“Peter…”

“Please. I just need to think.”

Tony squeezed his shoulder tight, then released it.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Alright, bud. We can…we can talk later. Tell FRIDAY if you need me, okay?”

“I will,” Peter said, and knew he wouldn’t.

* * *

After the panic came anger.

Anger at the world for refusing to leave well enough alone. Anger at his past self for wanting to leave the safety of the Tower. Anger at Steve and Bucky for enabling him to do so.

Anger at Mister Stark, because his goddamn phone was _still_ blocked from accessing the internet.

Only the fear of having to explain to Tony a dent in his wall or the destruction of a brand new Stark-Phone kept him from chucking the stupid thing clear across his suite. Instead, Peter let it fall onto the wrinkled comforter, rolled onto his back with a sigh, and settled for counting the ceiling tiles again.

 _One._ How had they figured him out literally overnight? Was he really so recognizable without the mask, or was it the simultaneous disappearance of Spider-Man from Queens and arrival of a teenager amongst the Avengers that had tipped off the press? Had he let something slip to another user while he was high and barely conscious on the floor of Tabar’s hideout (or Leah’s, or maybe Allan’s) and had they offered up a few interviews in exchange for some petty cash? Was this all _his_ fault?

 _Eight._ What did Ned and MJ think? Were they proud of him, scared for him, entirely indifferent? Were they still angry at him for leaving them high and dry when they were only trying to help? What about all the foster parents who had labeled him as _too much_ and pushed him along to the next home, because even putting locks on all the windows hadn’t stopped him from sneaking out of them late at night? Did they regret trying to prevent Spider-Man from saving lives, or did they feel justified in their decisions to abandon him, lest his high-risk lifestyle put them in danger?

_One hundred and thirty-eight._

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

* * *

The sun had long since set when Mister Stark came to check on him, plate of hot food in hand.

“Hey,” Tony said softly. “How are you feeling, kiddo? I was hoping you’d still be awake.”

As if he could sleep. “I’m…fine, I guess.”

Tony nodded and set the plate in front of him on the bed. “You missed dinner. Didn’t think you’d be up to sitting around the table with everyone.”

“Thanks,” Peter said and left the food untouched, his stomach churning at the very sight of it.

Tony settled on the edge of the bed, placed a heavy hand on his knee, and sighed. “I think we need to talk.”

Talking was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. His mind had already churned through every possible cause and outcome of their scenario in the few hours he’d been left to his own devices. What could they possibly talk about that he hadn’t already thought?

“Okay,” he said anyway.

“We know how your identity got out.”

Peter had been staring at his own crossed legs, reluctant to engage in the conversation. Now, his eyes shot to Tony’s. “How?”

“You remember Nurse Bolton? She was–“

“–on call the night I detoxed.” The sting of betrayal was bitter, pushing burning acid up his throat. It had no right to, of course. He’d seen the woman’s face for approximately five seconds, and not a word had passed between them – but Bruce and Tony must have trusted her to some degree. She wouldn’t have been there otherwise. “Yeah. I remember her. Kind of.”

“Well, apparently she thought this would be the perfect opportunity to have her fifteen minutes of fame.” Peter could tell Tony was trying hard to keep his face impassive, but his lips curled into an angry grimace and something cold settled over his eyes. “I’m so sorry, PJs. We had no reason to think she’d do something like this. I didn’t even know she knew. She must have overheard us talking or something.”

“She didn’t know why I was there, did she?” Peter asked, because his alter-ego being public knowledge was difficult enough, but his heroin use was something else entirely. “Did Bruce tell her?”

“No,” Tony said quickly. “I watched an interview, read a couple pieces that quoted her – all she said was that you were sick. If she knows why, she didn’t tell anybody.”

“She doesn’t. She wouldn’t tell the world I’m Spider-Man and not tell them Spider-Man’s a drug addict.”

“Yeah. Well. Small miracles, I guess.”

Peter wouldn’t quite call it a miracle. More like a rare stroke of luck in a terribly unlucky life. Still, there was no guarantee the truth of him being a user wouldn’t, at some point, reach the press. There were a lot of dealers and fellow addicts walking the streets of Queens who knew his face intimately.

“Small miracles,” he echoed.

“You wanna eat?” Tony nudged the plate further toward him. Peter wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I know you probably don’t feel like it, bud, but you’re only gonna feel worse if you don’t get something in your stomach.”

“If I get something in my stomach, I might throw up.”

“Operative word being ‘might.’ Won’t know unless you try.”

Peter looked at him, for once hoping the utter exhaustion he felt in his very bones showed through. “Mister Stark. You’re stalling.”

“I’m not stalling. I’m feeding you. And it’s my Tower, so if I was, theoretically, stalling, then–“

“ _Mister Stark.”_

Tony rubbed a hand down his face and went quiet. Peter mustered up all the patience he had left in him – which wasn’t much – and waited.

“I called Pepper earlier,” Tony said finally. “We talked through this shit storm and, basically, we have two options.”

Peter winced. He knew talking to Pepper couldn’t have been easy thing for Tony to do when a mere mention of his ex’s name typically sent him fleeing the room, but she was an undeniable PR genius. “And the options are?”

“Option A is to deny everything. Give a public statement, shut down any concept of you being Spider-Man, act like it’s ludicrous for Bolton to even suggest it. Tell everyone she’s just looking for attention, or trying to get revenge on me because I fired her – which I did, by the way, obviously. The drawback is that a lot of people might not believe it. They might keep digging, and that would keep the world’s eyes on you for a hell of a lot longer.”

“Option B?”

Tony winced. “Admit it. Tell the truth. The whole shebang. Option C is to not say anything. But if we don’t, everyone will just assume it’s true, anyway, so that’d be pretty pointless.”

“I don’t want to do any, like, interviews, or anything,” Peter said immediately. “So I’m…actually kind of in favor of Option C.”

“You wouldn’t have to face the public to admit you’re Spider-Man. I could do it for you. Might keep the vultures at bay if they at least get confirmation.”

“You shouldn’t have to do that.” Peter lowered his eyes back to his lap, shying away from the older man. “This is my problem, not yours.”

“Nuh-uh. We’re not doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“This whole voluntary isolation thing you’ve got going on. You’re not alone in this, kid, and you damn well know it. This isn’t just a Peter Parker issue, this is an Avengers issue.”

In spite of the dread curling icy tendrils through his chest, the corners of Peter’s mouth twitched upward ever so slightly. “Does that mean I’m an Avenger?”

Tony’s initial reaction was a sharp inhale, followed by a beat of silence.

“Sure,” he said after a moment. “Why not? You’re here to stay, anyways. Might as well make it official.”

Peter had dreamed, ever since the first time he donned the Spider-Man suit, of one day becoming an Avenger, of playing in the big leagues with the experts. He’d never thought it would actually happen.

Sucked that it ended up feeling less like a dream come true and more like a waking nightmare.

Peter pushed the plate away and leaned in, pressing his face against Tony’s chest and inhaling deeply. Tony wrapped an arm around him without hesitation and drew him closer.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, feeling for all the world like he was eight rather than eighteen. “I’m just – Mister Stark, I’m really scared.”

“I know,” Tony said into his hair. “I know you are, PJs. But, hey – we’re in this together, alright? You’re not facing all this shit alone. We’ll make it work. Everything’s gonna be alright.”

Peter wasn’t so sure.

* * *

The next day, after a long night of too much tossing and turning and not nearly enough sleep, Peter sat curled as small as he could make himself on the corner of the couch and waited.

The rest of the Avengers sat around the common room in varying states of anxiety, Natasha being utterly calm and collected while Bruce was fidgeting almost as much as Peter himself.

The rest of the Avengers save for Tony, that is. His face was what they were all waiting with baited breath to see. As it was, the live feed of the press room downstairs displayed on the common room TV showed a table with one empty seat. The sound of people milling about and murmuring amongst themselves behind the camera was quiet, but Peter still winced at every cough and soft laugh.

His world was crumbling around him, and they _laughed_. The worst week of his life would go down as the highlight of some people’s journalistic careers.

“You alright, Queens?” Steve, seated beside him, asked as he draped an arm across Peter’s shoulders. Peter leaned into the touch, silently desperate for reassurance. “It’s not too late to back out. One call downstairs and this whole thing is off.”

“Little late for that now,” Peter said quietly. The decision to hold a press meeting was, in a way, all the confirmation the press actually needed. Everything that came next was merely a formality. “I’m just – nervous. I know it’s already out there, but…”

Peter couldn’t find words to describe his inner turmoil, the panic that lay tight in his chest, the finality of it all. Luckily, he didn’t need words. Steve squeezed him gently and said, “I know.”

Peter doubted Steve actually knew how he felt – _his_ identity had never been a secret – but it was still nice to pretend, just for a moment, that he wasn’t completely and utterly alone.

* * *

When it finally began, the press meeting lasted all of five minutes. Tony gave a simple confirmation that Peter Parker, the high school dropout and former troubled foster child, was, indeed, Spider-Man. When a burst of activity lit up behind the camera, sixty-something people all shouting the same questions over each other, Tony demanded silence.

“Let it be known,” he said with a deathly sort of calm, ignoring all the _how_ ’s and _why_ ’s and _is he an Avenger_ ’s, “that anybody who messes with Spider-Man messes with all of us. Keep your goddamn distance. You can quote me on that.” Tony rose and smoothed a hand over his coat buttons, the very picture of sophistication and wealth. “We won’t be taking any questions. Thank you.”

And that was that. Peter exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and let his head fall onto Steve’s shoulder as the feed cut out.

This was, as far as he was concerned, the beginning of the end.

* * *

A week passed, then two, then three. Peter kept his distance from the windows, kept the curtains in his suite permanently closed, but he was never far from his phone. It was his lifeline to a world he staunchly refused to interact with.

“Kid,” Tony said without looking up as Peter scrolled through his feed at the dinner table, food in front of him cold and untouched. Mister Stark didn’t need to say anything else to get his point across; he’d said it all at least a hundred times already. Peter sighed and placed the device face-down, screen still glowing. “Thank you. Eat.”

Peter didn’t.

* * *

Bruce regarded him with undisguised disapproval, mouth set in a grim line. If Peter didn’t know any better, he’d say the man looked angry.

“You’ve lost weight. Again.”

“Sorry,” Peter said numbly, which was the only thing he’d said when he’d lost three pounds the previous week and two the week before that. “I–“

“–don’t have an appetite. Feel sick.” Bruce removed his glasses and rubbed at his closed eyes with a sigh. “Yes. I know. You still have to eat, Peter. This isn’t okay. You were already underweight.”

If he was already underweight, then what difference did it make? Couldn’t he just keep wasting away and away and away until the world had nothing left to stare at? Until he disappeared entirely? Would that be such a terrible thing?

“I know this has all been really hard on you,” Bruce continued, attempting to make eye contact, which was something Peter had been avoiding like the plague as of late. “I get it. Believe me, I do. But you have to find a healthier coping mechanism than starving yourself–“

“–it’s not a coping mechanism–“

“ _Yes,_ it is. You might not realize it, but it is.” Bruce looked him up and down, expression regretful. “If you lose any more weight, we’ll have to put you on a feeding tube. Do you understand that? This is serious, Peter. It’s not optional anymore. You _need_ to eat.”

He knew he needed to. But he didn’t _want_ to. Didn’t want to feel his gut churn uncomfortably with fullness, didn’t want to break up his matching set of physical and emotional emptiness.

It had never mattered what Peter wanted, though. Everyone just took, took, took, and never gave him anything in return.

His happiness was, as always, nothing more than an afterthought.

* * *

“ _Shhh._ It was just a bad dream, bud. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

Peter cried against Tony’s shoulder. He cried the last little bit of life left in his soul out onto a wrinkled pajama shirt. He cried and cried and cried.

“I’m not fine. I’m not _fine._ Nothing is fine.”

Spider-Man was the last thing that had been truly and wholly _his_. Now it was everyone’s and nobody’s. Free for the taking, for the studying, for the picking apart. Fair game.

“I know you’re not.” Tony, too, sounded close to tears, gripping Peter as if afraid he might disappear at any moment. It wasn’t exactly an irrational fear. “I know.”

Did he?

* * *

“You know what? _Fuck_ this bullshit.”

Peter looked up, eyes wide. They’d been sitting in what he thought was a companionable silence, Tony working on some tech development sketch or another on his tablet, Peter staring glaze-eyed and exhausted at his phone.

“What?” He asked softly, uncertain whether or not he wanted to know the answer.

“You need to put some real damn _clothes_ on instead of sitting around in your pajamas all day, that’s what – and take a shower while you’re at it. We’re going out. You and me. Lunch. What are you waiting for? Go.”

Peter’s heart cinched in his chest, skipping a beat or two before continuing, fast and irregular. He shook his head vigorously. “No – Mister Stark, _no._ I’m not…I’m not going _out_. I can’t.”

“You can, and you will. Go get ready. We’re leaving in an hour.”

“What happened to not wanting me to leave the Tower?” Peter asked, overwhelmed by a sudden rush of emotion. It was more than he’d felt in the past several days all combined, because even as he argued, the look on Tony’s face was set and decided, and he already knew he wouldn’t be getting out of this one.

“Yeah, that was when you _wanted_ to leave. Now you won’t even leave this damn floor. That’s not healthy, kid.”

He wasn’t wrong – it had been a little over a week since Peter had gone anywhere but his suite or the common room. Tony, treading on the thinnest of eggshells, had been bringing him his meals from the kitchen, then sitting with him per Bruce’s orders to ensure he cleared his plate. He hadn’t been doing anything lately other than staring at his phone, sleeping in fitful and irregular spurts, and eating with extreme reluctance.

But that didn’t mean he wanted to _do_ something about it. This was the life he was resigned to. Peter had accepted it. Why couldn’t Tony?

“I can’t,” he said, voice hardly louder than a whisper, practically begging. “I _can’t_. Everyone’s gonna stare at me and take pictures and I’m gonna hear everything they’re saying–“

“Yeah, they will. And it’s gonna suck. Get used to it. That’s your life now. Welcome to fame.”

“ _Mister Stark._ ”

“No. Nuh-uh. I’ve let you wallow for long enough. For way too long, actually.” Tony looked him over, face softening ever so slightly. “I know this all feels really fucking shitty right now, PJs, but you can’t hide in your room for the next sixty years. You’re gonna have to face the world sooner or later.”

“How about later?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You seem to be under the impression that I was giving you a choice.”

Peter opened his mouth to continue his protest – but then he looked at Tony right back, really _looked_ at him, meeting his eyes for the first time in what felt like years.

The man was all but dead on his feet. Though determined, his face was lined with exhaustion, and Peter could have sworn his hair was more gray at the roots than it had been when they’d first met only a couple of months before.

Guilt surged through him. And even though his heart was hammering and his hands were beginning to shake and he felt like about two seconds from bursting into tears, Peter whispered, “Okay.”

At his compliance, Tony’s stony expression crumbled into sadness, sympathy, maybe even a hint of regret. Peter felt his own mouth wobbling, saltwater obscuring his vision. He rose to his feet only to be immediately wrapped in the firmest of hugs.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Tony said against the crown of his head. “It’s gonna _suck,_ but you’ll be okay. I’ll be there the whole time. Alright? I’ll be right there.”

Peter let a few tears fall and gripped Tony back, nodding shakily. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Alright. I’m gonna go, uh…go take a shower.”

Tony pulled back, blinked a few times, and twitched his nose. “You do that.”

* * *

It ended up taking Peter closer to three hours to get ready rather than the one he’d been offered, pushing their meal out on the town to dinner rather than lunch. If Tony had a problem with that, he never said as much. Peter had a feeling he didn’t, though. When he emerged from his suite at half past three, fully dressed with reddened eyes and stuttering breath, Tony looked nothing short of immensely relieved.

Peter felt nothing but abject terror. No, that wasn’t true; there was also a side of impending doom.

The first half of their car ride was silent except for the radio playing quietly in the background. Peter had hoped it would stay that way.

No dice. “How you feeling, kid?”

Peter looked from the window to Tony. “Uh. Nervous? Just a little.”

“Pete. The truth.”

“I’m scared. I’m – I’m really scared, Mister Stark.”

Tony blew out a slow breath. “Been there, done that. It gets easier every time, I promise. Now it’s kind of fun. Sometimes.”

Peter knew that Tony liked the attention, and that was great for him, but he _didn’t_. He longed desperately for the days when he was just another face in the crowd. His fifteen year old self would have an aneurysm if he heard that, but it was true. He would give anything to be a nerd again, a loser, a nobody.

“I don’t think this is ever gonna be my idea of fun,” Peter said, since they were doing the whole honesty thing.

“That’s fine. It doesn’t have to be fun. Just has to be bearable. You’ll get there.”

Peter somehow doubted that – but this was _Tony,_ the only person he knew who had yet to lie to him. If he couldn’t trust Tony, then he couldn’t trust anyone.

“I’ll get there,” he repeated, and swallowed hard around the lump in his throat.

* * *

The Italian restaurant was a small one, family-owned and buried amongst the grander icons of Manhattan, but Tony swore by it.

“I’ve been coming here for years,” he said as he opened the door for Peter, who tried with all his might to focus on the pleasant smell of fresh pasta and not the other patrons staring at them. “Owner’s a sweet older lady, but she doesn’t take any bullshit from the vultures.”

Tony gestured to a faded sign on the wall that read, _NO SMOKING, NO CAMERAS, NO EXCEPTIONS._ That, at least, was a small comfort.

But the paparazzi weren’t the only ones who took an interest in the Avengers. Tony was a man recognizable in nearly every country around the world, let alone in the heart of New York City. The buzz of conversation in the joint grew to near dead silence the second they stepped foot inside.

A smiling waiter approached them and held out a hand. Tony clasped it and said brightly, “Luca! Long time, no see. How’s your mother?”

“Still in hospice,” the man – Luca – said. “Still a nag, though, my _God._ ”

“Hey, moms, right? Luca, this is Peter. Peter, Luca.”

“Hi,” Peter mumbled as he stared pointedly at the man’s scuffed shoes, fully aware he was being rude but, frankly, too near the verge of a mental breakdown to care.

Luca took no notice. “Nice to meet you, Peter. Come on – your regular table’s empty.”

Tony’s regular table turned out to be one squished into the far left corner of the restaurant, not by any means invisible but not out in the open, either. Once Luca had filled their water cups and left them to ponder the menu, Peter broke just a little.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, heaving a few shaky breaths. “I can’t do this.”

Tony leaned across the table and caught his eyes. “ _Hey._ Look at me, PJs. You’re doing great, alright? Just a few curious onlookers. Nothing too crazy.”

On the table beside him, his phone dinged a few times. Peter instinctively reached for it. Tony was quicker. “Wha – hey!”

“Nope,” Tony said, popping the _p_ , and pocketed the device. “New rule: no phones at the table. Were you raised in a barn? Don’t be rude.”

Anxiety scratched at the inside of his chest, threatening to claw its way out. “That could be important.”

“If something’s important, the others aren’t gonna be dinging our phones.”

Peter frowned, brows furrowed. “How else would they contact us?”

Tony sniffed lightly and took a sip of his water. “To your left. Man in the blue hat. Lady three tables down from him.”

Peter turned.

Sure enough, behind his back and slightly to the left, Steve Rogers sat with his face shadowed by a baseball cap pulled down arguably lower than any non-suspicious person would ever wear it. He gave Peter the briefest of winks, then returned his gaze to the newspaper in his lap.

Three tables down, wearing an uncharacteristically bright sundress, Nat smirked into her coffee.

“What, you think I go out on the town without security?” Tony asked with a smirk of his own when Peter turned back to him with wide eyes. “I’m Tony fucking Stark.”

As much as he hated to admit being wrong, Peter couldn’t deny that it was, suddenly, a little easier to breathe. “Okay. That’s – okay.”

“Okay,” Tony echoed, and reached across the table to open his menu for him. “Pick an appetizer. Preferably something very greasy, because my _God,_ you’re a twig. Gotta watch that. People are gonna think I’m starving you.” And even though he’d told Peter to pick something, he tapped the most calorific item on the menu. Peter couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his face. “I’d go with the mozzarella bruschetta. And get a damn soda, would you? Full sugar.”

Peter did.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, you can find me on tumblr under the same username. thank you for reading!


End file.
